


Champ de Violette

by coconutcluster



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff, Happy Ending, Human AU, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, fluff with a lil bit of angst!!!, remus is mentioned in passing, seriously there is so much fluff, they're vague and nothing bad happens dw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-02 04:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23569381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coconutcluster/pseuds/coconutcluster
Summary: When Roman was six, he ran through his neighborhood during a game of tag and found a dead end.He’d never been that far on his own, never seen the spot where the road ended and the treeline began, but he was walking through the forest before he could think twice, admiring the birds and plants and everything new as he made his way to whatever destination the world picked for him. And the world picked something beautiful.
Relationships: Anxiety | Virgil Sanders/Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders
Comments: 44
Kudos: 235
Collections: fic to read when I have bad feelings





	Champ de Violette

When Roman was six, he ran through his neighborhood during a game of tag and found a dead end. 

He’d never been that far on his own, never seen the spot where the road ended and the treeline began, but the minute he saw it, his mind jumped to every story he’d read where the adventure started at a treeline just like this one, with uncertainty just like his; he heard Remus calling out to him from down the street, but his focus was on the stories past the deadend, and his next step was through the trees. He walked for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, padding down a pathless trail and gawking at the little world around him - his cookie-cutter neighborhood didn’t have any trees between the houses, so he’d never heard birdsong so loud, but he quickly decided it was his favorite sound in the world - as he made his way to whatever destination the world picked for him. And the world picked something beautiful. 

When Roman was eight, he and the beautiful something got a visitor. 

He’d followed the path through the trees nearly every day for two years at that point - the field was barren in the winter, true, but in spring and summer, it was a sight that took Roman’s breath away: a wide expanse swathed in violets, waves and waves of the tiny flowers as far as he could see, a purple field of his own to retreat to when he needed to hide from the world beyond the treeline. It was quite a shock, then, to arrive and see a boy dressed in black sitting among the flowers. 

Roman had marched right over to the boy’s side and demanded,  _ “Who are you?” _

The boy startled, dropping the violet he was twisting between his fingers as he looked up at Roman - his eyes were big, round, almost as dark as his hair, and Roman rather liked looking at them, but he kept the suspicious look on his face because this boy, as far as he was concerned, did not belong here. 

_ “I asked you a question,”  _ Roman said when the boy just stared. His mom said that a lot when he and Remus didn’t answer her right away. He thought it made him sound very grown-up. 

The boy’s wide eyes narrowed.  _ “I heard you.”  _

_ “Well, you didn’t answer.”  _

_ “Why would I tell you who I am if I don’t know who  _ you  _ are?”  _ the boy challenged, eyes still narrowed. Roman blinked at him - he supposed that made sense, what with Stranger Danger and all. Well, he wouldn’t dwell, then.

He pushed his hand out, chin high and a smile now adorning his face; his mom said he had a million-dollar smile, so he imagined it was a pretty good thing to start with.  _ “I’m Roman.”  _ He thought for a second, then added primly, _ “It’s very nice to meet you.”  _

The boy’s expression softened. He didn’t take Roman’s hand, but scooted over and nodded toward his old spot, inviting Roman to sit beside him; Roman’s grin brightened as he took the spot and got to picking violets for a crown. 

_ “I’m Virgil,”  _ the boy said quietly, watching how Roman weaved the flowers into a strand. 

_ “That’s a weird name.” _

Virgil frowned again.  _ “So’s yours.” _

_ “No, it’s not,”  _ Roman said matter-of-factly, and he handed Virgil the strand of flowers to hold on to while he stretched to grab the tall flowers a couple feet away.  _ “It’s from an old place in Italy.” _

Virgil didn’t contest that, though he knit his brow and bit the inside of his cheek - it didn’t matter, anyway, because the topic faded as Roman grabbed the chain from his hands and set to continuing it with his new picks. Virgil watched him again, drawing his knees to his chest and resting his chin on them. 

_ “How’d you find this place?”  _ Roman asked after a few minutes of silence. (He didn’t like silence.)  _ “I didn’t think anyone else came here.”  _ He raised his chin again, smug. _ “This is my field, you know.” _

_ “You don’t own it.” _

_ “Well, I  _ found  _ it, and it’s finders-keepers.”  _

Virgil frowned again; Roman was beginning to realize he did that a lot.  _ “My family just moved here,”  _ he explained in that quiet voice of his. _ “I found this place when I walked behind our house,”  _ he looked around, picking at another violet before offering it to Roman for the crown, _ “so now it’s mine, too.”  _

Roman squinted - he already had to share most things with Remus, so he wasn’t fond of giving away a part of his violet field - but then it hit him. His face brightened and he nearly dropped the chain as he clapped his hands together, turning to face Virgil with a brilliant smile.  _ “We can be like kings!”  _

_ “...What?”  _

_ “Kings,”  _ Roman repeated,  _ “like in fairytales?”  _ Virgil perked up. _ “Kings have kingdoms, right? This can be our kingdom!” _

Virgil’s wide eyes went wide again as he glanced around the field, then back to Roman, blinking owlishly.  _ “Really?”  _

Roman nodded, and his tongue stuck out as he quickly finished tying off the violet chain, wrapping it into a circle. He picked it up, admiring it for a second, and set it gingerly on Virgil’s dark hair, a crown of violets. He gave his new co-king a proud smile. 

_ “Really.”  _

When Roman was twelve, he wanted to scream at the world. 

_ “I’m never speaking to you again,”  _ he snapped when he heard footsteps in the violet field, even though his face was buried in the flowers. He was hoping the ground would open up and swallow him whole. 

_ “Princey-”  _

_ “Don’t call me that.”  _ He lifted his head to glare at Virgil, who frowned down at him, and rolled over onto his side to avoid him further.  _ “You had plenty of names for me earlier, why don’t you use one of those instead?” _

Virgil gave an indignant huff - Roman wasn’t looking at him, but he could imagine the way Virgil crossed his arms, all annoyed or whatever. Well, he wasn’t the only one who could be annoyed.  _ “Roman, it was a  _ joke _ -”  _

_ “It wasn’t very funny!”  _ Roman sat up, cold shoulder momentarily forgotten, and fixed an imploring frown on Virgil; he felt the pressure rising up behind his eyes again, but he wasn’t going to let anyone else see him cry that day. He’d had enough of people laughing at him for a long while.  _ “Remus already makes fun of me with his friends. He doesn’t need your help.” _

Virgil’s frown deepened.  _ “I wasn’t trying to make fun of you,”  _ he insisted.  _ “Remus just-” _

_ “Made fun of me,”  _ Roman said deliberately,  _ “and you joined him. And it really hurt. And I’m never speaking to you again, so if you’d kindly leave me alone for the rest of time, that’d be great.”  _

He turned back to face the opposite way, arms crossed tight over his chest. For a minute, the field was quiet - the sun had already disappeared from the sky, so it was bound to get dark soon, but he just wanted to sit and fume in the violets for, oh, thirty or so years - and he almost thought Virgil had listened and just left, but then he heard a miniscule sigh. A second later, Virgil’s beat up Converse appeared beside him; Virgil dropped down to sit next to him, his shoulders hunched. 

He picked at a cluster of violets in front of him for a little bit, chewing on the inside of his cheek. Roman was tempted to glare until he actually left, but he had to admit, he was curious. 

_ “I’m really sorry,”  _ Virgil said finally, quietly.  _ “I was going along with Remus ‘cause he actually laughed when I joined in, and I don’t really have that many friends still and I thought he might like me if I kept going along with it, and I didn’t actually think about it, and I’m sorry I made fun of you and hurt your feelings.”  _

Roman raised his head more, only a tad righteous, and scrunched his mouth to the side as he thought over the apology. The only sound beyond them as he contemplated was the chorus of cicadas in the trees; he liked having a background noise to fill their silence. It almost felt like a little jury behind him, helping him consider everything. 

_ “You don’t have to forgive me,”  _ Virgil mumbled after a minute, and his voice sounded like he was about to cry, too. It made Roman feel better and worse at the same time.  _ “But I really am sorry.” _

_ “Thank you,”  _ Roman said gently. They went quiet again.  _ “I’m sorry I said I was never gonna talk to you again.”  _

_ “It’s cool.”  _ Virgil shrugged, still picking at the violets. _ “I kinda deserved it.” _

Silence, again. It made something uncomfortable squirm in Roman’s chest - he hated the silence, hated it even more when it was between him and Virgil, not to mention when it was heavy like this, weighing on his shoulders. He wanted to shrug it off, swipe it away and just enjoy a conversation with Virgil and the cicada choir. He liked talking to Virgil; he’d never have lasted not doing it for the rest of time. 

_ “Are we okay?”  _ he asked. Virgil looked at him with those owlish eyes, a sliver of hope breaking through his frown. 

_ “I am if you are.”  _

And Roman gave a grin, delighting in the way Virgil’s face lit up when he saw it; the squirm in his chest disappeared as he bumped their shoulders together and said,  _ “We’re okay, then.” _

Virgil’s smile was brilliant - he didn’t smile that often, Roman had noticed, and he really liked seeing it when he did - before he looked back to the ground, and it faded a little; he pulled a violet and twisted it in his hands for a minute.  _ “Thanks,”  _ he said quietly, finally, like he had to work up the courage to say it in the first place.  _ “For forgiving me and just... being my friend. I know that’s kinda stupid to say, but, uh...”  _ He gave a small shrug. _ “I appreciate it.” _

_ “We’re not just friends, Virgil, we’re  _ co-kings. _ ”  _ And Virgil’s smile was back, brilliant once more as Roman took the violet from his hands and set it ceremoniously on his head; it was a pale comparison to his first crown, even as crudely woven as it was, but it made him laugh, and that was enough for Roman.  _ “That’s better than just friends, and if there’s anyone I could rule the violet field with,”  _ he gave a sweeping gesture to the field, his head held high and loftily enough to make Virgil laugh again, before his voice softened and he gave a genuine smile of his own.  _ “I’m glad it’s you.”  _

When Roman was fifteen, he just wanted everything to end. 

It started months before, the twinge in his chest that made his eyes tear up, made him grit his teeth and dig his fingernails into his palms until it subsided. It started with a notebook, a story, a piece of himself that he wasn’t ready to share that Remus found and read aloud as a joke; it was supposed to be funny, Roman knew, but the minute he heard the lines he’d poured himself into being presented to his mom and Remus’ friends as a comedy act, he felt that twinge in his chest burst into a flame. He’d stormed in and snatched his notebook, turning away as quickly as he’d come in so no one saw the tears already spilling down his face. That was the first time he felt like he wanted the world to collapse on him, to hide the boiling humiliation of existing. 

And then there was school - math and science were never his strong suit, but seeing the red letters spelling out his failures at the top of every test wore on him quickly. He felt himself slipping then; he lost his energy, his motivation to try when he knew he’d only fail, and the failures got worse and worse until the thought of going to class made his stomach turn and the twinge in his chest gnaw at him, day after day.

It seemed to spread, that twinge. He turned to writing, painting, singing, whatever he could when it came too strongly, but after a while, those started to wear on him, too. He couldn’t read his own writing without feeling sick anymore, couldn’t paint without wanting to rip the canvas to hide his mistakes, couldn’t sing without thinking of everything he was doing wrong. The twinge crawled up his throat and stole his breath and worth and resolve away. 

The day it got the worst, when he simply couldn’t stand existing as he was, he stumbled to the violet field and fell to his knees in the flowers. He collapsed in on himself, his hands curled against his stomach with the urge to rip out everything inside him and be empty, be nothing, because being nothing couldn’t be worse than the fuck-up he was, and the thought of doing that to himself scared him beyond the waking world - it scared more him that he considered trying it anyway - so with the last of his energy, he pulled out his phone and called Virgil. 

He couldn’t remember what he said on the call. He couldn’t remember hanging up or curling tighter in the flowers, but he did remember Virgil bursting through the opposite wall of trees, his hair wild and hoodie missing. He remembered Virgil’s hands on his shoulders, shaking him to attention, pulling him up and cupping his face - Virgil’s hands were so cold against his skin, and in that minute he savored the shock of it - and wiping his tears. He remembered Virgil’s voice, shaking but somehow the most calming thing in the world, saying his name over and over. 

_ “Sorry,”  _ was the first thing Roman said, his voice hoarse. He’d been crying for a while, he realized numbly, and his throat hurt a little. 

Virgil stared at him.  _ “Sorry?”  _ he repeated, his mouth slightly agape.  _ “Sorry- Roman, you don’t- what?”  _

_ “Sorry for making a fuss, I mean. I didn’t mean to upset you.”  _

_ “Roman,”  _ Virgil said deliberately,  _ “what’s wrong?” _

Roman closed his eyes and took a breath, filling his head with the scent of violets and Virgil; the twinge was small then, quieter, but God, it hurt.  _ “I don’t want to be me anymore.”  _

_ “What do you mean?” _

_ “I can’t do this, Virge.”  _ He finally uncurled his hands, his cramped wrists sending fire up his arms, and raised them to where Virgil’s still rested on his face. He leaned into the touch, feeling a sober wave of tears rising in his eyes.  _ “I don’t  _ want  _ to do this anymore.” _

_ “Do what?”  _ Virgil whispered. 

_ “Exist. Live like this. Hating myself, feeling sick when I look in the mirror or hear my voice or-”  _ He squeezed his eyes shut tighter.  _ “I hate this. I hate me. I don’t want to do it anymore. I just want this to be over.”  _

He finished with a pitiful attempt to stop the tears he felt coming, a ragged intake of breath - and for a second, the world was quiet. He heard the breeze in the trees, smelled the promise of rain in the air, felt tears leave their warm tracks down his face; his energy seemed to still as he focused on the little puzzle pieces of the world around him, the little pieces of the violet field and his place in it. And then Virgil spoke. 

_ “Roman,”  _ he started, his voice hushed.  _ “I get it, I do. I understand what you’re feeling - or at least part of it - but you have to listen to me, okay? You have no idea how much the world needs you. Look at me, Princey.”  _

Roman opened his eyes and blinked away the tears blurring his vision. Virgil’s eyes were wide, earnest as he held Roman’s face, like if he tried hard enough, he could memorize every inch of the boy in front of him and give him back the easy smile he knew so well. 

_ “The world needs you,”  _ Virgil repeated.  _ “The world needs your art, and your stories, and those songs you make up when you’re studying, and the way you talk about musicals and movies and books even when no one else knows what you’re saying, and the outfits you put together and send to me at three in the morning when you can’t sleep-  _ I  _ need them, too. I need you to be here,”  _ he said, his voice breaking, and Roman held on tighter to his hands.  _ “We’ve been bickering for seven years and it’s my favorite thing about you, you know? You love things so much you’ll argue about everything. I need that - I need  _ you _ , Roman. And maybe it’s selfish to ask- it’s definitely selfish, but if you can’t keep going for yourself, please,  _ please  _ keep going for me, and you know I’ll be here for you for as long as you need me. But I need you, too, Ro. I need you to keep going.” _

Roman stared at him, holding onto his hand like a lifeline; the twinge in his chest burned, crawled up his throat as his vision blurred with tears all over again, and everything inside him felt raw and constricted and  _ wrong _ , but there was a tiny whisper somewhere deep inside him, a hushed plea not unlike Virgil’s. A plea to keep going. And though the thought of living one more day with the twinge pulling at him made him want to just close his eyes and lay back down forever, he listened to the whisper.

He lurched forward, wrapping his arms around Virgil and burying his face in his shoulder.  _ “Thank you,”  _ he mumbled. 

He fought back more tears when Virgil hugged back, tighter.  _ “It gets better,”  _ Virgil promised, curling his fingers into Roman’s sweater.  _ “It takes time, and I don’t really know if it stays better forever, but it’ll get better. I’ll be here until it does. Okay?” _

A part of Roman wanted to ask what happened after it got better. A part of him wanted to cry and cry and cry until there were no tears left, nothing left inside him. A part of him just wanted to hold on tighter to Virgil in the bed of violets. In the end, that part won, and he couldn’t help but feel grateful for it. 

_ “Okay.” _

When Roman was nineteen, when he and Virgil were lying beside each other in the field of violets, he heard Virgil sigh with the spring breeze.

_ “Sometimes I wonder if I was supposed to exist.”  _

Roman turned his head to him, peering between stems.  _ “What do you mean?” _

_ “I don’t know if I’m supposed to be here,”  _ Virgil said, still staring at the sky, biting the inside of his cheek.  _ “People are supposed to have a purpose, aren’t they? We’re supposed to be here for a reason, to fill a space. But I don’t think I have a space - I definitely don’t have a purpose. I don’t think I was meant to exist.”  _

Roman stared at him for a moment. Virgil’s profile was something to behold, if you asked him, with a straight nose and dark eyelashes and those feathery bangs he never pushed off his forehead; Roman could study his face for hours, taking in every freckle, every tiny change between his smiles and frowns and everything in between. But the way Virgil refused to meet his eyes in that moment raised more concern than awe. 

_ “Of course you’re meant to exist,”  _ Roman said, earnestly, though he cracked a smile right after.  _ “Why would the all-mighty force of the universe put you here otherwise?” _

_ “Maybe the universe made a mistake.”  _

Roman sat up then, careless of the violets crushed under his palms as he pushed himself to face Virgil - he looked so natural in the flowers, dark hair and olive skin against the bed of purple - and frowned.  _ “You’re not a mistake, Virgil.”  _

Virgil’s eyes finally found his, eyebrows creased overtop. He gave a tiny smirk, a forced smirk, as his gaze flickered over Roman’s pinched expression.  _ “What makes you so sure?” _

_ “Because we’re here together.”  _ Virgil’s smirk faltered.  _ “If you’re here by accident, why would I be here with you? Why would we be in this same spot for the same reason? Why would we exist at the same time if you weren’t meant to be a part of this moment right now?” _

Roman paused, though he didn’t expect an answer, and he didn’t get one. He and Virgil stared at each other in silence - Virgil’s eyes were wide, unreadable, his lips pressed tightly together, like he was trying to hold something back. At last, Roman just sighed and laid back in the violets. __

_ “You don’t need to have a purpose yet, Virge,”  _ he said softly.  _ “And when you do, it doesn’t have to be something big, I think. It can be little things - like making really good coffee in the morning to wake yourself up, or watching the sunrise on your way to work, or learning to love your smile when you see it in the mirror and pictures. You don’t have to change the world, even if you want to. But never think it’s an accident, you being alive, and being here,”  _ he added, even quieter as he felt Virgil’s hand find his and hold on tight, a violet caught between their palms.  _ “You deserve to live on purpose.” _

When Roman was 21, he visited the violet field for the last time. 

Not the last time _ever_ , of course (or at least he hoped so), but at least the last time for a long while. He’d been invited to a party the day before he was set to leave for the airport, but he’d declined without hesitation - he had an ache in his chest, a painful longing to spend that precious time in the violet field, _his_ violet field. 

Well, not just his. 

_ “Italy, huh?” _ Virgil said, dropping to sit cross-legged next to him in the field. Roman spared him a quick glance and turned back to the sunset; he’d purposely neglected calling Virgil earlier that day, as if avoiding him would make everything easier. It had just made things a lot more permanent in his head. It just made it hurt more. But Virgil was Virgil, and he knew Roman better than he knew himself, so here he was - and for some reason, that hurt even worse. 

_ “Yeah,”  _ Roman said. He wanted to say more - he always did - but it all blurred together in his mind, one thing after another laying on top of each other and blending into something unworthy of filling his last face-to-face with Virgil for a while, so he left it at that. 

Virgil just shook his head, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.  _ “You and your fancy school.”  _ They went quiet for a second; Roman never did like quiet.  _ “You wanna know something?”  _

Roman glanced over at him again and let his gaze linger this time; the sun was just on the horizon, low enough they couldn’t even see it past the trees anymore, but the light weaved between the trunks and painted Virgil a pretty pinkish-gold, laying a hazy crown of the color in his hair. His smile was crooked - he didn’t give genuine smiles very often, and Roman’s chest ached again to see this one was sad, bittersweet, once he really looked at it. Virgil tugged at a violet, twirling it in his fingers while he waited for Roman’s answer. Roman wanted to study him for hours then; he wanted to soak in every last detail, every smile and fidget and shadow, commit them to memory and hold on tight for a rainy day. But after a long minute, he offered his own tiny smile and gave Virgil what he wanted.  _ “What?” _

_ “I always knew you were gonna study in Italy,”  _ Virgil said loftily, tossing the violet at him. Roman barely caught it as he squinted at him.  _ “You know how?” _

_ “How?” _

_ “‘It’s from an old place in Italy,’”  _ Virgil mimicked in a horrible falsetto, biting his lip to hold in a smile when Roman blinked once and promptly burst out laughing.  _ “It was destiny. You also have to be an old thing from Italy, or else your name would just be weird.”  _

Roman tried in vain to quiet his laughing for a moment - he didn’t try that hard, to be fair, because the airy feeling in his heart when he heard Virgil laugh a little with him was euphoric - but finally, eventually, he managed to look back at Virgil and ask, in a voice much softer than he intended,  _ “You remember that?”  _

Virgil’s laughter faded, too, though his smile remained.  _ “Of course I do. It’s one of the first things you ever said to me, and you said it with such  _ confidence _ , like it being from Italy made your wack name not wack.” _

_ “My name is not  _ wack _!”  _

_ “It is!”  _ he grinned, leaning forward just to elbow Roman in the side. Roman elbowed him back and scowled, but Virgil just gave him a mockingly concerned look, eyebrows raised.  _ “You should really come to terms with that before you get to Italy, you know.”  _

_ “Shut up.”  _

_ “Make me.”  _

And Roman’s scowl faltered, just for a second. The skip in his chest at such a stupid little phrase was ridiculous, just another whim he didn’t want to waste these moments on - years of similar exchanges and he still couldn’t subdue the flush in his cheeks. He rolled his eyes after a minute, turning back to the sunset and pretending not to notice Virgil watching him out of the corner of his eye.

_ “I still have that crown,”  _ Virgil said quietly, and Roman felt guilty for the tone shift until he understood what Virgil was saying.  _ “The flower crown you made when we met, I mean. My mom pressed it and put it in a frame.”  _ He gave another small smile, his eyes focused on some spot in the distance.  _ “I think she was more excited about me having a friend than I was.” _

_ “We weren’t friends, we were co-kings, if I remember correctly,”  _ Roman said, and mirrored his smile as he bumped their shoulders together. As if on instinct, Virgil’s hand found his in the violets; it was weird, Roman thought, that a little taunt made his face burn, but this just made him feel at home. He held tighter. 

_ “You’re leaving tomorrow.”  _ It wasn’t a question, and Roman didn’t know how to answer.  _ “For a while.”  _

_ “Yeah,”  _ he whispered. Two years abroad. It didn’t seem like long in the grand scheme of things, but in that moment, with Virgil’s hand in his, two years sounded like a lifetime. 

Virgil nodded, more to himself than anything, rubbing his thumb across the back of Roman’s hand idly.  _ “Try not to let the Italian girls woo you too much.” _

Roman couldn’t help but laugh again and shake his head.  _ “Shut up.” _

_ “Make me.” _

And this time, he didn’t falter - he looked over at Virgil, and Virgil looked back, and there was an unmistakable challenge glinting in those dark eyes as his gaze flickered down to Roman’s mouth, and then Roman kissed him. 

It happened like that, all in one swift second, one moment as a cluster of little moments blending together; the way it happened didn’t even matter to him, though, because he was kissing Virgil, and it sent a shiver down his spine and tasted like honey and felt like a summer rainstorm and a thousand other things he couldn’t begin to describe after thirteen years in the violet field, so he just held Virgil’s face as Virgil held his waist and kissed harder. 

_ “Why,”  _ Virgil breathed, when they broke apart at last,  _ “did you wait to do that until you were about to leave for two years, you absolute moron.” _

Roman offered a smile, brief and apologetic, and pressed another kiss to his lips, savoring the way Virgil leaned into it without hesitation.  _ “Sorry,”  _ he said, another smile tugging at his mouth as he pulled away just enough to admire Virgil’s freckles up close - he followed a second’s whim and pressed a kiss to the bridge of Virgil’s nose, where they clustered together most, and the small, stupidly fond laugh Virgil gave in response made it so much more than worth it.  _ “That was kinda dumb on my part.” _

_ “Kinda?” _

_ “But hey,”  _ Roman ignored him,  _ “it was thirteen years in the making. Two years should be cake.” _

Virgil snickered, a single eyebrow raised. _ “You think so?”  _

_ “Well, maybe not cake - but we’ll make it work, even if it isn’t easy.” _

And Virgil’s expression softened. He studied Roman’s face for a minute, like he was trying to memorize it, and asked, in the quietest voice,  _ “Really?” _

Roman didn’t hesitate to tug him into another kiss, a promise locked between them as they held each other in the violet field. 

_ “Really.” _

When Roman is 29, he looks out his window and reminisces. 

There’s no violet field behind his new neighborhood - it’s not even technically a neighborhood, just an apartment building set on a busy block downtown, right near the river - but that’s okay, even if it makes a part of him ache for the waves of little purple flowers. The closest he has is a potted cluster of violets on his windowsill, and it’s beside them that he leans his elbows and watches cars go by on the street below, watches the different people in their different outfits destined for different places walk by, to wherever it is they’re headed. 

He leans on the windowsill and thinks about the games of tag he used to play with Remus. His brother was always so much faster than him, but he lost motivation quickly; all Roman had to do to outrun him was go a little further than usual, take a different route and find someplace new to navigate. He thanks his lucky stars that Remus got bored so easily, because if he’d kept chasing Roman that one day in particular, Roman might never have stepped past the treeline. He might never have found his field. 

He thinks about his mom; she was always so crafty, always on the lookout for something new to bring into the world to make it a little brighter. He remembers the day she excitedly showed him all the dandelions growing in their backyard. She picked a whole bunch of them and sat down on the porch, beckoning him to sit beside her; she showed him how she weaved them together, forming a chain of fluffy yellow flowers, and when she was done, she tied it off into a circle and set it on his head, proudly proclaiming him the crowned prince of their yard. (Remus nearly threw a fit when he came outside and discovered Roman had gotten a noble title without him, so their mom gave a little laugh and made him a crown, too, and upon Remus’ demand that he get a unique role, she appointed him duke. He was pleased by the sound of it.) He thinks of the fairytales she read to him before bed, the love of stories and whimsy she fostered. He thinks of her quite a bit, and he thanks her every time he calls home; she never asks why, just gives that sweet laugh of hers, but he thinks one day he’ll tell her just how much he owes to her. 

He thinks about the world as a whole; he thinks of purposes, big and small, and opportunities in old places in Italy, and violet fields hidden away for those meant to find them, to stumble upon them like a gift from the universe. He thinks of being fifteen, and wishing the world would collapse in on him. He thinks the longest about that one. He wishes, with all his heart and soul, that he could go back in time to himself then and kneel down and say, It gets better. It might not be better every day, and there might be times when it’s far from better for a while, but there are days that make everything worth it, and those days are more often than you’d ever think. He thinks about that, and he’s glad he had someone to sit in front of him and promise something similar. He’s glad he kept going. 

“If you don’t get in here in thirty seconds, I’m starting the movie without you, Princey!”

He thinks about the violet crown in a frame in the living room, about the promise woven in between its flowers. He thinks of his co-king of twenty-one years and counting. He tries  _ not  _ to think of the ring hidden away in his bedside drawer, because if he thinks too hard about that one, he might let something slip before it’s supposed to. 

“I’m coming,” he calls over his shoulder, smiling to himself. These are the days, he tells himself, that make everything worth it; there is someone on that couch in the other room that makes everything worth it. 

He looks at the potted violets beside him, and he thanks the world for giving him something beautiful. 


End file.
